He could smell her. Even through shallow breaths, dragged quickly through his mouth and swallowed in desperation. He wallowed in it a moment, knowing that soon he would need to resort to total avoidance. She was seventeen and innocent, and he was an ancient, rutting beast slavering over her scent. His very own calendar; the moon to his tide.
She numbered his days. The sweet, heavy bite of old blood and new beginnings, five days. Then the build to endless possibility, slick and open and ripe. Ten days, eleven, sometimes twelve. She would tease and prod, then, gentle and winning. She would purr in combat lessons and chatter gaily through breakfast, pouting when he pretended not to listen. Her southern minx persona on high beam, endless vowels and fluttering pet names, as different as day and night from the moody sarcasm that would soon follow.
In between was the wanting time.
He had no idea what it was, or what purpose it served. Other women sailed from ovulation down a gentle slope to the sharp drop before the blood came. But not Marie. Five days of torture, before her blood time. Scent so thick with musk that it made his judgment suspect, and his hands untrustworthy. He took to avoiding her – missions; the gym; flimsy, transparent excuses – leaving her with another cross to bear. Confused, alone, an untutored, untouchable girl writhing on the altar of her hormones.
It was her need, her pain that broke him.
*
“Marie?”
“Go away, Logan. I’m busy.” She sounded pissed, and he was fucking insane to be here, now.
“You ain’t busy, kid.” Grumpy, tetchy, tired old man tone. Her daddy, even her grandpa, he reminded himself.
“Well, let’s just say it’s my turn to avoid you and be done with it,” she said, not even bothering to hide the hurt. He pushed his forehead into the wood of her door and told himself not to go in. Make her come out.
Why the fuck his hand insisted on pushing open the door, he had no idea.
“We need to talk, Marie.”
He kept the door wide open, and plonked himself in the armchair that marked the furthest point from her bed. She hadn’t even raised her face from the coverlet to acknowledge his presence, but the tang of salt in the air told him she had been crying. A lot.
“Logan, you don’t need to pretend you care, you know. The whole making yourself invisible thing … it’s pretty obvious.” Had to give her points for that one, really. Tackling the problem head on … she was brave, his Marie.
He owed her an explanation. But how the fuck did you say “well, kid, I want to lick you stem to stern right now, so I need to stay away?”
Badly, of course. If you were the Wolverine, you just spat it out and hoped for the best. And because this was Marie, you didn’t spare any of the damn details, because she needed to know it all, every little detail from start to finish.
Where the fuck did this start?
“Marie. You know how I smell things?” Rhetorical, of course, because she had been inside his head and even shared his senses for brief periods of time. And the way she stiffened and tried to crawl even further into her pillow told him, oh yes, she knew.
“Each month, round about now, I have to stay away from you for a while. Because of the way you smell.” Let that be enough, he prayed. Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ….
“Why?”
He coughed. Reddened, he knew. Braced himself.
“You smell … good, Marie. Fertile.” Not exactly the truth, but how could you tell an untutored teenager that she smelt of sex and wanting and unbelievable, mindless pleasure? That you could smell her slickness and want from halfway across the mansion and hear the noises she made from six rooms away and that he wanted to fuck her and fuck her and fuck her so that they could both find that satisfaction she craved?
He forced himself to look up and at her, and was alarmed to see she was sitting up now, facing him. And that slightly puzzled look told him she hadn’t quite gotten it yet. Not what he really meant. That fuckin' innocence. Torturing them both.
“It gets me hot, Marie. Hot and stupid.” Really, really stupid, he told himself, like coming into the girl’s room to tell her how frickin’ horny she smelt, when you know she’s hurtin’ bad for the lack of being able to do anything about it. Tellin’ her it was makin’ him horny too. Genius.
Marie seemed to think so too. Except she wasn’t wasting any time on introspection. She’d risen to her knees on the bed, and her face was a study in pissed off female.
“Well, sugar, I’m sorry that I’m making you stupid! But you know, I am female, and any female will do for the Wolverine, won’t it? I’m sorry my skin won’t let you touch me, so you can get rid this inconvenient bit of lust! I’m sorry I can’t be just like all those other girls so you can fuck me outta your system and get on with leavin!”
“Jesus, Marie, that ain’t what I was talking about! You don’t see me fucking with any of those other little girls, do you? It would be the wrong thing to do, because you’re just babies. Seventeen fucking years old. I ain’t even allowed to think some of these fucking thoughts, kid.” He broke off, figuring she didn’t need to know any more about those thoughts. Nasty, perverted, delicious thoughts. Even if she did deserve to know that she was the type of girl men adored.
He fuckin’ hated that. Hated that Marie thought she was locked inside that perfect body, a prisoner of her gorgeous, creamy skin. Hated that no little prick was brave enough to get through the challenges, give the girl what she wanted. She was ready for a lover, cryin’ out for one, and the one man who was desperate for her, stupid for her, shouldn’t even be thinkin’ about touching her.
Well, fuck that. He still owned his mind, surely deserved some privacy there, even if Wheels had a mortgage on every other damn part of him. And the girl on the bed had gulped and swallowed when he said that, and her scent was rising. Again. Time to leave.
“What thoughts, Logan? What do you think about me?” Well, ain’t that the twenty four million dollar question. The one he had avoided for so long, avoided even the slightest accidental touch because she sure as hell didn’t need the answers to that.
“Thoughts I’ve got no business having, Marie,” he growled. Stood up to leave.
“Like – where you would touch me? How?” And fuck, her hands should NOT be moving over her body like that. Like a painter looking for a muse. Like he might stay, and show her.
Six steps to the door.
He was still willing his limbs to move when she jumped from the bed and crossed the floor in one fluid motion. Closed the door. Locked it.
“Tell me.” He could pretend he hadn’t heard, but she would know it was a lie. He could say no, and ignore all that want. That need.
Or he could stay.
********
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Story Notes:
Author's Notes: I have no idea where this one came from. There might be an element of squick for those who object to a sexually charged relationship between a teenager and an older man. Consider yourselves warned.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing. Please don't sue. The copyrights of Marvel Comics and Twentieth Century Fox are respectfully acknowledged.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing. Please don't sue. The copyrights of Marvel Comics and Twentieth Century Fox are respectfully acknowledged.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Betaed by the wonderful SkyBlueRae, who deserves to be paid her weight in TimTams.
Chapter End Notes:
to be continued ... trust me. I wouldn't leave you hanging.